


(try to) fix it

by zefive



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Papyrus Has Issues, Sans Has Flaws, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zefive/pseuds/zefive
Summary: It's a Bad Day for Papyrus.





	(try to) fix it

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt on tumblr! please be aware that the self-harm is _pretty_ detailed?

It's a bad day.

Papyrus knowns it from the moment he wakes up; feels it in the heaviness in his bones, the ache in his sternum, the thick tar in his head.

Papyrus knows a bad day when he feels one; a Bad Day, even, capitalized and underlined, because it's one of _those_ days. One of those days where Papyrus has to lie in bed for an additional hour, just so he can gather the energy to _move_ \- so he can stop being such a _waste_ , and actually get going.

Nothing is ever easy on a Bad Day.

Papyrus spends an hour in the shower, staring at the wall, fingers itching and water cold, because he can't quite collect the energy to turn it up- there's a knife stowed somewhere on his shelf, hidden behind children's book and puzzles Sans has never bothered with; he thinks of it as he showers, as he dresses, as he goes downstairs to make breakfast.

He doesn't know why he bothers making it; Sans won't eat it, won't even _touch_ it, and Papyrus is never hungry on days like this.

But routine is routine, so he stands by the stove and makes porridge anyway, hands steady and head fuzzy.

He doesn't always make porridge- sometimes he makes eggs or bacon, or surprise spaghetti; sometimes he even makes morning burgers, just for Sans, though even that Sans won't touch. Papyrus doesn't know why- it's not like they taste _bad_ , so maybe it's something else.

Papyrus doesn't want to think about what _something else_ could be. Because his head is fuzzy and dark, and there's a knife upstairs, in his room, calling his name.

“pap?”

Sans' voice is sleepy, still thick with it, and Papyrus pivots with a smile, bright and happy and _fake_.

“SANS! JUST IN TIME!”

The porridge doesn't smell bad- it's not burnt, at least, which is a surprise, because Papyrus was _sure_ he still had another hour left till Sans woke up; or maybe it was longer, or shorter, or maybe he was just wrong, as he so often is. His head is heavy with thoughts and tar, and he is smiling, still.

“SIT!” he gestures towards the table, walks to the cupboards; there's two chipped bowls in the far right, and he takes them out both, scoops up some porridge.

“oh,” Sans says, flops down without any kind of resistance. He looks tired, like he hasn't been sleeping at all, which isn't true- so maybe it _is_ earlier, though why Sans would ever be up now is a mystery. “thanks bro.”

Papyrus sets one bowl in front of his brother, the other next to the rock. Instead of sitting down he goes to find some containers to put the rest of the porridge in, unwilling to rest now that he _has_ to pretend.

The smile feels heavy and awkward on his face.

It's a wonder Sans doesn't notice how wrong it is.

“pap-?”

That's weird- it's an awkward tone, a slight hesitance, and Papyrus pivots back towards his brother, cheekbones straining, soul heavy.

Sans smiles awkwardly, and waves one hand. “spoons?”

Oh.

 _Yes, of course, how could he_ \- he turns back around, nearly stumbles in his haste, and rips open the drawer. Finds the two spoons, and beelines for Sans, plop them down in front of him.

-that's not normal behaviour.

“NYEHEHE,” he laughs, shuffles back a step. “I APOLIGIZE! I GUESS I'M NOT QUITE UP TO _SPOON_ TODAY.”

Sans snorts.

“bro, that was- really awful. 'specially for you.”

“OH??” he takes another step back, reaches backwards to the drawer. “WOULD YOU SAY IT'S... _FORKFUL_?”

Triumphally, he presents Sans with a fork- grins as wide as he can, keeps his voice as even as possible, and for a second, Sans just _looks_ at him.

Then he laughs.

 _Guffaws_ , really, loud and startling, and Papyrus jumps- folds his arms and forces the smile to stick on his face. He meant to _do this_ \- meant to make Sans laugh, meant to make him forget Papyrus had ever acted off; yet for some reason, it just- hurts.

Sans is happy.

And yet, Papyrus _isn't_.

“ _wow_ ,” Sans exhales, sharp and shaky, and he's still kind of giggling. “that was- that was _so bad_ pap. truly.”

Papyrus curtseys. “YOU'RE _MOST_ WELCOME, MY DEAR BROTHER!”

Sans' laughter pitches up, and he leans his weight against the table, grinning so wide it must hurt. “oh man paps, ya' gotta stop. i can't take this so early in the morning.”

Papyrus straightens up, pats imaginary dust off his clothes. The smile is starting to hurt, _really_ hurt, and so he turns away, puts his back to Sans.

“NYEHE, MAYBE THAT WAS MY PLAN ALL ALONG!”

Sans snorts. “to what? make me _pun_ away the puns?”

Papyrus groans. “THAT WAS WORSE THAN ALL OF MINE _COMBINED_ , SANS!”

Sans is still giggling, really, and it sharpens a bit at that- it should make Papyrus happy, really; to hear his brother _genuinely_ laugh, to be able to _make_ him genuinely laugh, but-

It doesn't.

Not on a Bad Day.

Papyrus doesn't quite know how long there's silence- it's hard to keep track of when there's static in his head and tar in his mouth, but there _must_ have been a good lull, because Sans yawns, and says: “welp, i'm gonna head off. thanks for the 'fast paps.”

Relief surges through him, blooms in his chest- he almost feels bad about it, but he's _tired_ and it's hard pretending, smiling, faking.

Usually he's so _good_ at this.

“HAVE FUN!” he throws out his shoulder, hefts up the pot and steps up to the sink- the door creaks as he turns on the tab, and he can barely hear the slam over the sound of rushing water, and Papyrus is _so relieved_.

He slumps against the sink, rest all of his weight on it; the water is roaring, sloshing around, and Papyrus stares as bits of porridge floats up to the surface, as the water turns grimy and gross, as it nips at the rim.

It spills over.

Water running down the sides, rushing out in the drain, and Papyrus should turn off the tab, he _should_ , but he just-

He can't.

He _can't_.

He's so _useless_.

The thought makes him flinch; his breath is tight, and it sticks in his throat, like glass-shards embedded in his bones, and everything is- sharp and painful and _wrong_ , and Papyrus' breath shakes, shudders, scratching at his ribs.

Useless.

That's what he is- that's _all_ he is, really, honestly. A waste of space and time and _air_ , and why does _anyone_ bother with him? Why does Undyne bother, when it's so _obvious_ he's not worth her time.

Why does _Sans_ bother, he thinks, and he inhales sharply, because-

Because, well, he doesn't, does he?

Papyrus doesn't want to think about this. He doesn't want to think about the- the _weight_ in his gut, the thing he's kept pressed down for so long. He can't do that, not now, not _ever_ , and he can't calm his breath, now.

He needs a distraction- something else to think about, because he can't _stop_ thinking about it, now. Can't stop thinking about the hours he spends alone every day, about the lies, about the fact that Sans probably _hates him_ -

No. No, no, no no- he flounders back, magic bristling in his chest, flaring out; he doesn't want to be here, in the open, in the kitchen, watching the pot fill with water and think about Sans, about his brother.

So he stops being here.

It's all just a matter of floating up a few more feet, of catching the railing with his hands and vaulting over it, of taking the few, long, steps he needs to be in his room. His breath is fast and loud, and he nearly trips over his carpet as he beelines directly for the shelf.

Pain's what he needs.

Pain is safe and familiar and _comforting_ , and it helps, it _always helps_ , and he needs it, because everything is hurting, but not in the right way. It's a different pain, a bad one, the kind that makes him remember how much of a mercy death would be.

Papyrus pushes his books to the floor, ignores the faint and distant thought of _don't do that_ , and reaches in to the back, stretches out his fingers and _finds it_.

The knife is smooth and cold to the touch, blade set in a finely carved wooden handle; Papyrus presses his fingers to the carvings, gulps in air like he's been drowning.

 _Safe_.

He stumbles back a step once, twice- drops down to the floor because the bed is too far away, really, and even though his head is empty, he can still _feel_ the thoughts, sticking to his bones and clawing at his spine.

He flicks it open.

The blade is clean silver, cold and reassuring, and gently, Papyrus presses it to his wrist.

Breathes out.

It's a relief. The soft, barely there sting nipping at his thoughts- it makes his chest unwind, makes his empty go quiet instead of just _empty_ \- it's like being able to breathe, to _think_ , and Papyrus almost sobs.

It doesn't hurt, not yet. His wrist is scarred from cuts, and his tolerance is too high to really notice something as simple as a little press- but it's the _feel_ of the blade against his bone, the weight of it in his hand, the sight of it.

His ribcage rattles with something; some unknown emotion he can't quite unravel right now, right here, and he lets it happen, because it's not _bad_.

He pushes down.

Grinds the knife into the bone, tips it back and forth just a bit; the pain is slow to come, creeping in, and his breath is tight in his throat, and he can barely feel the thoughts, now.

It's okay now.

And then it isn't.

There's no warning. Just a moment, a second, where Papyrus _feels_ it, feels magic that isn't his flickering, burning, and then Sans is _there_ , right in his face, one hand clamped down over his knife.

His eye is burning with magic, with fury, and Papyrus doesn't know what to do.

“what. the. hell.”

Sans' voice is flat. Magic snaps at the edges of his socket, and Papyrus can feel the warmth at the tips of Sans' fingers; can feel it scorch at his bones, and Papyrus is kind of flabbergasted.

“S-Sans?”

Sans widens his mockery of a smile; a flat thing that makes unease crawl at Papyrus' bones, because that's _anger_ , but Sans has no _reason_ to be angry-

Hasn't been in a long while, either.

“answer the fucking question pap.”

It wasn't a question, Papyrus almost wants to say. More of a demand, really, but the words don't really reach him; they're just a distant echo, belonging to the part of him that's breaking down in laughter, because _really_?

“I- nothing?”

Sans' expression twists. He laughs, short and snappish, and it's more of a bark, really, of disbelief and _anger-sadness_.

“are you for _real_ trying to tell me _this_ ,” he jerks his head down, briefly looks at the knife still pressed to Papyrus' arm. “is fucking _nothing_?”

_Yes._

But he can't say that, can he? So instead he shrugs, looks away- something burns at his throat, in his sockets, and that tiny part of him is still laughing, harsh and sharp and _wrong_.

“god _fucking damn it_ pap!”

Sans rips the knife out- throws it aside, and Papyrus winces, raises his shoulders; blood and dust wells up from his arm, fills in the empty space in his arm.

He can't look at Sans.

“that isn't _nothing_!”

He doesn't _want to_ look at Sans.

There's a sharp sound; weight shifting, Sans stepping backwards. Papyrus can hear his magic crackling, can hear the angry breath Sans is taking. There's no silence between them, not really, but it feels like it's there- strained tight, and ready to _snap_.

“look at me,” Sans says, in a controlled voice.

Papyrus does.

Sans' face is- it's odd, weird, because he looks more sad than angry; looks soulbroken, even, and it doesn't quite register, because _why_.

Why would he be so crushed over something like _this_?

It isn't like he cares.

Sans sighs. “pap-”

“Why-” Papyrus cuts him off, because he can't stop himself, can't keep the words in his head. They slip out. “-do you look like you _care_?”

It's pitiful.

Sans stares at him. Sockets wide, magic flagging, fading- he looks shocked, surprised, and Papyrus doesn't know _why_ , because it's an easy question, a simple one, one that Sans should have seen coming.

“i- _what_?”

Papyrus tugs his arm close, curls one hand over the cut; blood and dust sticks to his palm, warm and gritty and something to lean on.

“Why are you acting like you care?”

Sans doesn't stop staring. He breathes in, breathes out- looks lost and confused, like a child standing alone in a room, reaching for something that's far out of reach.

Papyrus soul stings.

“i- fuck, pap, i-” he stumbles over his words. Gestures, hands moving in the air but not making anything clear. He blinks rapidly. “i _do_ care about you.”

Papyrus can't help it- he snorts, a half-mad noise of laughter and disbelief, and it's that part of him- the part that's been breaking down, bit by bit, in the back of his head ever since Sans caught his hand.

Sans flinches.

“i'm not _lying_!” he hisses, and he keeps on blinking, like he's fighting back tears.

Papyrus smiles. It is not a pretty smile.

“It's okay,” he says, because it is. “I know you don't. So you don't have to _pretend_ -”

“i'm not pretending!”

Sans flings out one arm, steps forward; he's leaning in close, nearly tipping over, and there's tears in his sockets.

“you're my _brother_ , papyrus! of course i care about you!”

It doesn't make sense.

It doesn't make _sense_ , and Papyrus doesn't know what happens, then- one moment he is sitting down, is smiling, and the next he's standing up and he's yelling, and he's so _angry-_

The thread snaps.

“NO YOU DON'T!”

Sans stumbles a step back.

“You don't _care_ Sans! You don't care about _anything_ but yourself, but your own _interest_ , and you don't have to _pretend_ for me, okay, because I fucking _know you_!”

Papyrus steps forward.

“You don't give a _crap_ about me, Sans, because I'm a _waste_! I'm useless and stupid, and I'm _worthless_!”

“And every day, you take the _first_ chance to leave me alone! And I get it, Sans, I do, because I wouldn't want to spend time with _me_ either!”

“i-” Sans' voice is weak. “i don't- i don't think any of that-”

Papyrus laughs. “Oh, really? Because I _know_ you lie to me! I know you think I'm just your _dumb_ little brother, who doesn't know anything, who's _too weak_ to be useful! I'm just a _hindrance_ , aren't I? Just something to push aside and coddle, and _lock away_ so no one realises what a _fucking failure_ I am-!”

“that's not TRUE!”

Sans steps forward; reaches out, catches his arms, and he's crying, and Papyrus can't remember the last time he saw Sans cry.

“god, pap, none of that- none of that is _true_! i don't think you're weak or a failure, or- or a _waste_ , don't- don't _say that_ -”

His voice breaks. Gives out, and all Sans does is stand there, clutching at his arms, shoulders shaking and tears dripping down his face.

Papyrus stares.

“... Sans?”

“i'm sorry-” Sans says, gasps out, and his breath is hitching and shaking, and he's crying, really crying. “i'm sorry, i- i didn't _mean_ to make you t-think that, paps, i really- i really _didn't_ , i just-”

Gently, slowly, Papyrus turns his hands; closes his fingers around Sans' wrists.

“i wanted to protect you,” Sans admits, soft and soulbroken.

Sans raises his head; meets Papyrus' sockets, and holds it. “i don't hate you, paps.”

“i really don't.”

It feels like a lie- but Sans is- Sans isn't himself, right now, and even though the real Sans lies, Papyrus isn't sure _this_ Sans does.

Sans' breath shudders. “god you- you don't even _believe_ me, fuck-”

Sans looks away; breathes in, holds it. Releases it slowly, except it still trips over itself, hitching at his throat. He's still crying.

“paps. papyrus.” He looks back. “i- i know you probably aren't going to believe me, but i swear- i'm not lying.”

“i care about you, paps. you're my brother, and i _love you_. i never, _ever_ , meant to- to hurt you. to do this.”

Sans smiles. It's thin and not right, and it's probably mostly because of habit, but-

Papyrus almost believes him.

“i'm really, genuinely, sorry.”

Papyrus breathes out.

He doesn't know what he's feeling- can't reach it, can't _feel_ it, because his head is empty and heavy, but it's not- it's not bad.

He wants to believe this.

“Okay,” he says, and squeezes Sans' wrists.

“Okay.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> i cannot believe i'm still managing to uphold my 'post a fic once a month' mission.  
> anyway, yes, hi, i still love undertale a lot. i'll never escape.
> 
> btw, i have a writing blog! on tumblr! it's zewrit, and while you're free to send in requests/prompts, be aware that i'm _very_ slow.
> 
> anyho, that's it! hope you enjoyed! uwu


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